


More Than I’m Worth

by mochisquish



Category: Captain America (2011), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-04
Updated: 2011-10-04
Packaged: 2017-10-24 07:23:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/260632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mochisquish/pseuds/mochisquish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They’re in the dirt, in the mud, the only two hearts left beating on an endless battlefield.  They’re still fighting, with each other now, because Tony wants something from him and no matter how many times it happens, Steve always resists.</p>
            </blockquote>





	More Than I’m Worth

They’re in the dirt, in the mud, the only two hearts left beating on an endless battlefield. They’re still fighting, with each other now, because Tony wants something from him and no matter how many times it happens, Steve always resists.

A metal hand is on his arm, gripping tight, squeezing slowly like a compactor, twisting and pushing, anything to knock him off balance, but Steve is strong and he’s angry and he shoves back. He refuses on principle because it shouldn't be here and it shouldn't be with Tony, because the world comes first - because he loves the man but can’t stand him.

The suit clatters and wheezes as Tony stumbles backwards, only to stabilize and lunge forward, head-first into the other’s unprotected abdomen, helmet still attached because he can be an asshole when he wants. The wind is knocked from Steve and a sharp pain paints his stomach and he finds himself on the ground, chest heaving up and down laboriously as a great weight sits atop.

A fist connects with his jaw then scrapes past his nose, again and again until red splatters his skin. Tony’s yelling, words garbled and electronic, inhuman, and Steve yells back something irrelevant because he neither knows nor cares what the other is saying.

Tony hates that Steve isn’t addicted, not to alcohol or women, not to any of the vices that plague his own body. There’s a purity, an innocence that somehow survives despite all the blood and war, and Tony covets it, needs to protect it, and he fears it - has to destroy it completely.

He forces Steve onto his stomach so he can take what he wants because it’s shameful, taints the other man and brings him down to his level, if only for a moment in time. The first Avenger attempts to stand but a hand is on his neck in an instant and a low growl commands, “Stop,” and then he’s in the mud again, almost drowning in it, twisting his head to free his nose and mouth. Steve groans but hardly resists. It’s inevitable; it’s just a dance they do.

An eye is caked in earth, unable to open, but the other sees impossibly clearly through the rain, each blade of grass sharp and smooth, pointing to the sky like millions of daggers. There's a hand next to him, unmoving, unattached, a reminder it went too far this time. It was Tony’s fault. It was Steve’s fault for not trusting him.

Tony waits until the other’s vision is impaired to remove the helmet. His eyes are red and the wrinkles in his forehead run deep and he looks desperate and sick as if suffering withdrawal. He doesn’t want Steve to see him because he needs this too badly, and he can’t retain dominance when the truth is he’s weak.

There are hands on Steve’s hips, fingers winding into the blue fabric covering his legs, pulling haphazardly, violently. The man is chaos and he’s addiction and he’s the balance Steve needs when it’s too hard to be perfect, because he tries though it’s impossible. Tony exposes him, just enough to satisfy his own needs, the cloth pulling tightly around the other’s arousal, trapping and torturing, and Steve already knows Tony’s going to make him beg.

The metal suit comes off and Tony is suddenly aware of the cold, and he’s vulnerable – they both are – to the elements, to their enemies, and to each other.

It's too late but Steve barks, "No," and the answer is always the same. Tony runs a bare hand under his shirt and up his spine, too harshly to massage yet not sharp enough to bring pain. He replies, "It could be the last time," and Steve is never sure if Tony believes it or it’s some kind of ploy. He never asks.

An ill-mannered sputtering is heard from behind as Tony spits with the same finesse as a batter on a baseball field. A hand moves up and down his shaft to slick it, but it’s hardly enough, and Steve is already biting his lip; his heart is threatening to beat through his chest.

Tony’s positioning himself, knows Steve’s body too well, knows the proper angle when he reaches it and forces in completely, buries inside with one swift and merciless movement. There’s an audible gasp and the gritting of teeth and a sharp cry that’s silenced once Steve buries his head in the crook of his arm. He’s rocking already, gives no time for the other to adjust, presses deep, in those long, slow movements that are so irritatingly sweet. Tony craves Steve’s attention, and he’s obsessed and it’s destructive, and Steve loves that the man needs him because Tony’s a genius, he’s a billionaire, he’s a superhero, he has everything and absolutely nothing. There’s shame in it and there’s fear, that he will get too comfortable – that one day Steve will allow Tony to control him with their clothes on.

The friction is harsh, allows Steve to feel every inch of the other’s cock as he thrusts in and out, to the shaft and to the tip, hands on his backside, digging into flesh and spreading him open. It makes heat pool in his groin and his stomach churn, and he shakes and writhes, believing he’ll be sick.

A hand ventures into the blonde’s hair, fingers twisting and jerking backwards until his back arches and he chokes out his pain and surprise. Tony snarls, “Stay _down_ ,” but there’s a bout of playful sarcasm when he adds, “You understand English, America?”

Steve whines and moans and pleads, “Touch me,” in response because he’s playing him, knows it drives him crazy. It turns Tony on, simultaneously pisses him off, and the pace quickens. While Steve was trying to save the world Tony’s weapons were destroying it, and Iron Man couldn’t win respect on the theory one hit would keep people in place when Captain America declared he’d save them all. He hates the other man for that, for being better than him, for being preachy, for putting others above himself until he’s weak and needy like he is now, on the ground, begging for Tony’s hand.

Steve’s face is scraping the dirt as he’s pulled backwards onto the other’s cock, pushed forward again with each brutal thrust. He groans, “Tony, please, touch me,” louder this time. Dark wet spots dot the fabric of his pants and his arousal aches and he thrusts forward uselessly, desperate for stimulation.

Steve tries again, “Tony, Tony…” Sometimes the other’s tongue is like filth, asking if he wants it harder, whispering all the messed up shit he’ll do to bring him over the edge, but today there is no answer. The silence is maddening and Steve can’t wait, so he reaches for his own erection and is put down quickly. Tony captures the offending hand and locks it above his head, giving a quick and brutal thrust that claims him, makes Steve’s mouth fly open in a silent scream.

He snaps, "Don't," and then his other hand is on Steve’s thigh, flitting over thick muscles, slipping underneath and freeing his cock. Tony’s rewarded instantly for his mercy; the body beneath him bucks backwards onto his arousal then pulls forward again to thrust into his hand.

“You want this?”

Steve growls, “Fuck me,” because there’s no time for games. They play too many.

There’s a lilt in the iron man’s voice when he says, “Tell me how badly you want it,” and he’s serious, enjoys having his ego stroked, but Steve resists, makes it a point not to encourage vanity.

“Tell me,” he commands again. “Tell me you want my cock.”

Steve seethes, “Finish it,” like there’s a gun to his head, like he embraces death, and it enrages Tony when he won’t admit his own desires, when he makes Tony question if what he’s doing is wrong.

He twists his arm behind his back, shoves forward until there’s a cry of pain and sharp, heavy breaths. The super soldier is exaggerating - he’s been to hell and back - but he cries out anyway because it makes the playboy feel guilty.

Tony slams in harder as he’s privy to Steve’s tactics and he’d like to say they no longer bother him though they do. There’s a heaviness when Tony presses their bodies together, licks at the nape of his captive’s neck - warm trails that cool quickly in the dank atmosphere. Steve shivers - it’s teasing and unnerving like ants on his spine - and Tony’s exhaling hot breath in his ear, savoring how he squirms.

His hand is pumping now, more fervently, and Steve almost collapses into the mud when his legs and arms begin to shake. Tony wipes over the smooth wet head, pulls down the shaft, pressing a palm into the underside of his cock until Steve’s head is pounding and he’s drowning in anxiety. He yells, “Tony!” and Tony admits he loves hearing his own name. “Harder, please,” comes in a whimper. “Give it to me.”

He begs for more and he’s almost gone and the other knows it. When they’re on the ground, nude and tangled, Tony can give Steve what he wants, and it makes up for all the times he’s helpless or foolish - all the times Tony is too self-absorbed to consider Steve at all.

A hand grabs at the blonde’s collar forcing him backwards onto Tony’s lap. Legs are spread wider with weight on his knees, keeping him raised and balanced as the other slides in and out. Tony’s biting his shoulder, teeth barely skinning the tough weave of Steve’s uniform, but his hair brushes his cheek and Steve can feel the heat from his body, smell the sweat on his brow.

Steve comes down to meet Tony’s thrusts, taking him completely, gasping at the sting, but Tony’s still fondling his erection, making the pain and pleasure meld together until they’re indistinguishable. Steve tenses and slams down with wild, insatiable need. He can no longer think, doesn’t care if he’s a role model, a hero, doesn’t care that he’s shaming himself. The abandon gets to Tony – Steve always somehow gets to Tony – and he licks up his neck and behind his ear, one hand tugging harshly on his cock while the other fondles his balls softly.

“Tony, oh God.”

Lips curl against Steve’s skin when he asks, “You want to come?”

“Yes, _please_ ,” comes out in a rasp that’s spiked by a whine, and there’s no way to determine whether he’s beseeching or simply being polite.

An arm wraps around Steve’s chest, holding him tight until he can barely move and he’s trapped and has to take whatever Tony gives him. His head falls back, onto the other’s shoulder, mouth open, choking and panting, and he’s yelling, needs it faster, needs Tony to fuck him until he can’t take anymore – until they can’t be any closer.

Tony’s nipping at his jaw, running his tongue over any exposed flesh he can reach, pounding into him with all the desperation and want that can no longer be contained. Steve is silent, he can’t breathe, he’s coming in Tony’s hand, covering him in streams of warm ejaculate. It drips down his skin and into the grass, slicks the entirety of Steve’s shaft because Tony’s still stroking.

His left hand moves up Steve’s abdomen and over his chest, grasping at whatever he can. The man in his lap is more vocal now, grunts and whimpers with each thrust because the pain is back and he realizes what he’s doing and finds it unbearable.

Tony can’t last so he lets himself go, grip on Steve’s arousal painfully tight as orgasm rocks his body. He’s coming inside him, where the other’s muscles squeeze his cock, pull every drop of cum from his orgasm, again and again until he’s spent. He’s still thrusting though he’s tired now; still stroking Steve with awkward movements and a shaking hand.

He releases his cock and rests his arm on Steve’s thigh, buries his head between his shoulder blades as he makes strangled noises that could be mistaken for sobs. Breaths come heavily, out and in as he captures the scent of him, and then his ear is to Steve’s back and Tony is calm, listening to the hypnotic beating of his heart.

There’s silence and neither moves, then Tony whispers, “I love you,” like he does each time, so softly Steve never knows if he’s meant to hear and so he never replies.


End file.
